On arriving in Vietnam, the first thing you’re warned to do is never stray off the beaten track. This is a pretty common piece of advice for tourists of any country, and it’s usually for the same reasons- avoiding dicey backstreet situations and/or local critters. In Vietnam however, you’re asked to do so for more ominous reasons. Despite the fact that the American War (as the locals call it) ended nearly forty years ago, an estimated 15% of Vietnam’s total surface area is still heavily contaminated with unexploded ordinance.
Skull and Crossbones
In April 2015, I got the opportunity to spend two weeks travelling Vietnam with a group of friends I worked with in Abu Dhabi. A fortnight just wasn’t enough time to do everything we wanted, so it was far from a relaxing holiday. Early starts and late finishes dominated the itinerary as we raced to immerse ourselves in Vietnamese culture in record time. Mid-way through our journey from Hanoi to Ho Chi Minh City, our Vietnamese guide, who’d christened himself Johnny in an effort to aid our awkward tongues, arranged for us to meet up with one of the volunteer teams that safely dispose of unexploded bombs found by the general public. Our initial excitement deserted us as soon as we arrived at the roadside littered with red skull and crossbones signs.
For perhaps the first time on the trip, we didn’t need Johnny to translate the local signage for us. The message was brutally obvious. The heaving humidity wasn’t nearly as oppressive as the realization of what we were about to witness. This was a bombsite. Bombs are designed to kill. Paddy fields stretched endlessly into the distance around us, separated by low bushes and strips of red earth. A faint breeze occasionally kicked up dust that mixed with our sweaty skins to form a grimy paste over our bodies. We stood awkwardly to the side of the road and tried not to get in the way of the workers rolling out spools of detonating wire. Prior to detonation, we were encouraged to approach and see what these hidden killers really looked like.
The pit looked like a hastily dug grave with sandbags for a tombstone. It contained two mortar rounds, two cluster bombs, and a grenade. All were of Russian or American production. And despite our proximity to such massively unstable firepower, the most disturbing part was the unassuming nature of the weaponry. Years of corrosion had rendered them barely recognizable from the clay that surrounded them- they were clods of dirt to those who didn’t know any better. Needless to say, we treaded carefully away. Standing in the safe zone about 300 metres away, I again became aware of the extreme heat. An eerie silence had descended as we stood in sweat-soaked anticipation.
A warning siren whistled in the distance as the rasping crickets seemed to quieten in mutual apprehension. The explosion, when it came, was brutal. The sharp crack echoed against the distant hills and left us eyeing each other in a stunned silence. It felt like I’d been punched hard in the chest and winded. It wasn’t just an auditory assault, it was a complete sensory shock. Examining the aftermath was even more sobering- A gaping scar cut through the earth surrounded by jagged edges of shrapnel designed to maim and destroy. Surprising Gratitude Sinking into our seats on the mini-bus afterwards, we were exhausted from the heat and the experience.
But my mind was racing. Our stop-off prior to this had been to a small bar in rural Phong Nha, aptly named “The Pub With Cold Beer”. And despite its obvious appeal, the two young Vietnamese children that lived here with their parents were the absolute highlight of the visit. They were so affectionate and friendly to these pasty strangers, begging us to watch them ride their bikes and hi-jacking our phones to grimace for selfies. It was now hard to forget the unspeakable danger that lay beneath the ground these children played on in their bare feet. Almost four generations of Vietnamese people are left with a gruesome legacy that still claims lives with terrifying regularity. Selfishly, I began to feel grateful that I didn’t grow up with the constant fear that my next step could result in me losing my limbs, or worse. But I also felt immense gratitude toward the people who volunteer their lives towards making this country of unimaginable beauty safe for future generations. It’s crucial for visitors to risk wandering off the beaten track in order to understand the frightening hangover that still lingers over Vietnam, but also to recognise the selfless people who overcome the past in order to make the present a little safer.
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